It's late. I've wrestled with a topic all week and I keep getting back to the idea of Kofi –me. This probably sounds completely ludicrous, but it's true. I usually write or at least outline ideas that I'm curious about. I have an "interest" file where I put sticky notes, printed articles, book references, and lists of issues that I want to be, not expert, but at the very least, conversational. I had plans to discuss either the importance of the arts in education, the Clinton-Obama campaign, the lack of leadership in non-profits, or the decline of love in western societies. I prepared to write a glowing paper full of my interesting theories, anecdotes and essentially bullshit. We were assigned to discuss some sort of topic that either really affected us in some way or was an introspective look at an issue. These issues and situations, I definitely have my opinions about, but opinions are like infectious diseases; there are lots of them and they don't do any of us any good, or at least not for everyone. Jake would probably roll his eyes, snap his fingers and think, "Well I don't know about you, but I'm for damn sure my opinions matter!"
In an extremely conservative southern town, Jake was ridiculed often for being "out." He and I would walk the halls and were constantly reminded that we were different. Taunts came from the very people that experienced the same classes, the same bathrooms, the same lockers, the same teachers, the same generation, the same cafeteria, the same social development, the same gymnasium, the same locker room, the same supervision, the same pep rallies, the same Prom, the same football games, the same school—but yet no matter how hard I tried, because Jake didn't give a damn, we could never ever be the same. We were the fags, the queers, the gays, the feminine boys, and I was also the white black guy, the nigger, and never black enough. Thank goodness we had friends that thought we were awesome despite these "differences." Jake, for me, was special because he was so visibly happy in his own skin. I wasn't and still continue to live up to the maturity he exhibited so much earlier.
Recently, I've been interested in my own personal emotional development. It's not the cerebral sort of concerns about my degree or career mapping, but instead this type of personal content that I rarely share. Daily my interactions affect people, as theirs do likewise, and at times I wonder if I display the uncertainty that I experience. Do I honestly love my self? "Only when you truly love yourself can you ever be able to love others," says Eric Fromm in The Art of Loving. If Jake was having an especially bad day either everyone knew about it and refrained from too much interaction, or he'd grimace privately and smile despite the odds.
I feel pretty level headed. I work diligently, but I abhor compliments and usually let them to roll off as comment over compensation. If because of competition a friendship is at stake I'd rather avoid it by purposefully doing worst. I'd declare all those competing as the winners because I don't like the idea of ranking people's achievements—or losing friends because they're my lifeline. Besides, how do I know what it took for anyone else to deliver in a given moment? Is it the process or the product? In high school, I purposefully did not want to compete in arenas where I felt the "post-competition" pressure would be too unbearable. I did, however, attend a high school with this sort of underwritten nepotism issue that manifest into isolationism. I had to be careful not the upset the powers that be, sometimes those powers were my own classmates.
Being involved with band was a completely different issue. Competition was great because of the mutual support, or "team" ideology in creating a sort of temporary democratic experience where all people (instrumentalists) were on the same level—artistry. Jake was unabashedly happy for me in every regard if I succeeded at anything. He didn't challenge whether or not I deserved the recognition. Okay, so he was a little jealous that I got to go to the Interlochen Arts Summer Institute, but only because he felt left out if I came back with stories to tell. Thank goodness I was able to share with him the pictures and memories of an unforgettable summer. Jake definitely took his acting career seriously and we both challenged each other in our commitment to our crafts. Jake was determined to succeed no matter what.
I was so jealous that he could flounce his gold locks (he had great hair, everyone told him so, he knew it) and let people's comments clog the drains. He openly debated in class, and sometimes expected my cooperation. I didn't back him up. Jake would look in my direction for mutual support, but I'd always become mute. I remember one specific incident where I actually decided to adjust my walking pace in a crowded hallway just so I wouldn't be lumped in the same category as Jake as being flamboyant or "out and proud" by association. I was insecure, and not very proud. I was ashamed.
Jake didn't wear homosexuality on his sleeve. Yes, he was obviously undoubtedly gay, but it didn't necessarily define him. It was a facet, or a different hue to his mural, if you will. But don't be fooled, he could "strut it" with the best of them. We did a few fundraising fashion shows together for our local mall's Gap and people were convinced Jake was a natural. He owned the runway stage and the actor's stage. Three times we shared this musical theater environment: Footloose, Pippin, and our community theater's production of George M! He definitely had what it took. My roles were usually minimal. It was Jake that encouraged me to put down the clarinet for a second and experience what he loved so much. I found so many similarities. It's true that all the world's a stage and everyone plays a part.
Jake made his exit too soon. We were entering out sophomore year in college; he at Arkansas State University and I at the Rudi E. Scheidt School of Music at the University of Memphis. We were definitely committed artists. I was working at the Stax Museum SNAP! Summer Camp and he was acting in ASU's Summer Children's Theater program. We talked about seeing Wicked in Memphis in the same theater where he took me to see RENT two years before. I had said it was my turn to take him out! We spoke on the phone infrequently as our collegiate years brought new experiences, different friends, and busy schedules. I vowed that I'd try my best to stay in contact with the people who were responsible for molding my characteristics and, well, me—my friends. Our plan to hang out for his birthday was our last conversation.
Jake would say some of the best one-liners and make an entire room collapse in laughter. Don't make the mistake of crossing him because he would no doubt put you in place. He quoted Hamlet and Beyonce in the same breath. He loved Karen from Will and Grace and was especially authentic in Jack's "Cher" voice. He introduced me to the Baz Luhrmann Love Trilogy: Strictly Ballroom, Romeo & Juliet and Moulin Rouge. He also took me to see Jonathan Larson's RENT for my birthday. I had never seen RENT before and Jake scoffed and we laughed and he took me to see it on my birthday.
I went to visit the hospital and it was too late. He was declared brain dead. I learned later that he was actually going to a dress rehearsal for The Elves and the Shoemaker, but he was in a car accident. He would have graduated this May (2008). His funeral was my first. The entire time I felt numb. These liquid parcels that fell on my clothes weren't enough of a response to the situation. What could I do? Jake's funeral was at least a confirmation that indeed I did at least feel the love response emotion of mourning. In music, I feel pretty emotionally sound. My performance comments from music professors usually come back with, "Wow we really understood the emotional intent," etc. It's rare that I tap into this sort of deep touch in an open display of raw emotion. Why was I crying? Jake had other friends who maybe he was closer to and I didn't want it to seem that because I cried that we were on the same level that he was with them. How dare I?
Now I know better. His example of empathy for others, the characters he created, and the friendship we shared is one of the primary sources that I try to tap into when I need to be conscious of an indefinable element of my own emotional environment. I guess maybe I review somehow my experiences with Jake as lessons in love for myself, others and craft. At Jake's funeral, actors and actresses from the Arkansas State University theater department joined and performed "Seasons of Love," from the musical RENT. The song asks,
"Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes, Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred moments so dear. Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred (525,600) minutes – how, do you measure, measure a year? In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife. In five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes – how, do you measure a year in the life? How about love? How about love? How about love? Measure in love. Seasons of love. 525,600 minutes! 525,000 journeys to plan. 525,600 minutes - how can you measure the life of a woman or man? In truths that she learned, or in times that he cried. In bridges he burned, or the way that she died. It's time now to sing out, tho' the story never ends let's celebrate remember a year in the life of friends.
Remember the love! Remember the love! Remember the love! Measure in love.
Seasons of love! Seasons of love."
There, I've written this assignment and I hope that this serves a purpose not only for you, but for me. It has been three years. The two of us would normally be looking for opportunities now that we finished our first degree. One idea was to move to New York. Clearly they have been waiting for such a long time. We've been in the twilight zone of our surroundings and stuck out—"out." Ha, Jake, if nothing else, taught me that it's okay to love myself. Now, even since his passing, I'm still learning to do just that.
Thanks Jake. I miss you.
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